


set the table for three

by astrid (alharper)



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Crack, Multi, always ask yourself of your OTP: who's lilo and who's stitch, in the sense that wrathion is a bit sillier than canon strictly calls for, ok this is EXTREMELY silly, or maybe... quite a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-14 09:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15385491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alharper/pseuds/astrid
Summary: “You’re right, in this case. My presence here is to any number of ends, but there is one in particular which concerns you to any great extent,” he says. He leans forward, catches one of Anduin’s hands and fixing him in place with his best intense look. It's difficult to accomplish intensity without unnerving most mortals, given how draconic he keeps his eyes - it seems to set off some kind of instinctive wariness - but he's fairly certain he's accomplished it.“It has been a number of years since we saw each other, and the time has come that we should both be considering the next stages of our lives - and who we want beside us when we move into them.” He impresses as much sincerity into his voice as he can, but Anduin’s beginning to look alarmed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SharpestRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/gifts).



Wrathion peers down the side of the Keep, considering. He needs a good backdrop for his planned entrance, and this should prove satisfactory.

He hasn't been to this part of the Eastern Kingdoms since the change in leadership, but it doesn't seem any different - the final push against the Legion being off-shore has left no real scars on the city, but the harbor is full of ships, swarming with serious faced warriors and champions. No caskets line the water today, but before the week is out more ship will return, heavy with grim cargo.

The war… continues. Malfurion recovers somewhere while rumors of his death become more lurid with every retelling, and the borders of the war front shifts back and forth around Lordaeron. Nobody manages to quite achieve a decisive victory, and the reports from his Blacktalons indicate that the young leader of the Alliance remains as soft-hearted as ever he was. And now a potential consort has entered the picture - a young woman who, despite being a warrior, is from all reports just as soft and amenable as he is. The Alliance needs some stone at its heart, if it is to finish this war before the bitter cold of winter begins to roll in earnest down the hills of the plague lands.

But despite this oppressive reality, the attitude of the city is bright as he moved through it, morale high after reports of the latest skirmishes filter through the streets. This, more than anything, is likely what allowed him to slip unnoticed with only the faintest whisper of magical suggestion.

Given the unfortunate circumstances of their last visit, he isn't sure enough of his welcome to enter conventionally - it would leave him reliant on some third party to convey his petition for audience to Anduin, who undoubtedly would fail to relay how convincingly, how charmingly he made his request. Waiting on his good graces if he was ill inclined to give them, or trying to circumvent the process after announcing his presence, would only add time that Azeroth could not necessarily afford.

So instead, he scaled the keep as the sun fell low in the sky, city passing into evening. It was always more fun to surprise him, in any case.

Landing precisely on the sill in the right form is a neat feat, but one he pulls off. It would be easier to simply land and then transform, of course, but on the off-chance he was seen immediately, it was good to take the time to do things properly. It wasn't relevant in this case, as he wasn't marked immediately, but he didn't regret the effort. Behind him, the lake has begun to light on fire in reflection of the last gasp of daylight, and he crosses one leg over the other and folds his hands across his knee neatly.

“I request audience with his majesty, the High King,” he declares grandly from the windowsill, “and also, a word whoever is responsible for your security, because this really was somewhat appallingly easy.”

“… _Wrathion_?” Anduin’s standing by the bed with a shirt halfway up his arms, gaping like an imbecile.

He's filled out very nicely, in the last three years. Grown more serious around the mouth, and quite a bit taller than when they last saw each other in Pandaria. He’s broader as well, adolescence fading to barely an echo in the shape of his face. The combined determination of his father and his guard has translated to a surprising amount of lean muscle on his slim frame. He’ll never be as ridiculously solid as his father was, but it's certainly a good look, even - or maybe especially, in an odd sort of way - with the network of scars both fine and coarse that lattice his chest. They've also faded significantly since last he saw them, with Anduin’s quiet voice asking if he thought they were so very terrible, but likely won't fade further.

“Why, your _majesty_ ,” he purrs, sliding down to lean indolently back against the sill, “do you conduct all of your audiences shirtless, or should I count myself amongst your select favorites?”

Anduin goes brick red, and pulls the shirt hastily down over his head.

“What are you _doing_ here?”

“I had business in the area,” he says breezily, “and thought I would check in on my second favorite royal, the young High King.”

“I generally leave off the 'young' part of my title, but thanks,” he says wryly, and then, reluctantly, as though he knew the answer but couldn't quite resist asking, “who claims first?”

“Myself, of course.”

“Of course,” he says sarcastically. He looks rather tired for this early in the evening. “We didn't exactly leave each other on good terms.”

“That was years ago! Surely you cannot still be concerned about it, after all this time.”

“More than half _your_ life, not quite so long for the rest of us. Besides, not having seen you means you haven't even apologized. I had quite a terrible headache, you know.”

“I… miscalculated,” Wrathion says delicately, “although ultimately, it turned out much as I planned. The legion is defeated, Sargeras is no longer a concern, Azeroth has been saved from one of her greatest threats. I cannot say I am dissatisfied, overall, with the results.”

Anduin has been ambling across the room during this little speech, and he stands just in front of him now, eyebrows high, arms crossed. He's not just taller in general, but specifically taller than Wrathion. His eye-line falls almost level with the top of his head, and he’s obviously deriving some amusement from the change of circumstance, which is _unbelievably_ galling.

“Do I need to keep asking why you're here? It seems like a strange time to rekindle an old friendship, given everything.”

Wrathion straightens, tilting his head back to meet his eyes.

“I've come to offer my assistance to the Alliance,” he says gravely, “old gods begin to stir beneath the surface, and your little slap-fight with Sylvanas is sacrificing valuable resources.”

“Little sla -” Anduin covers his face with one hand and sighs. Loudly. “I can't - look, I'll take supper with you this evening, and we'll bicker about it then, for old times' sake. All right?”

“I shall clear my schedule,” Wrathion says magnanimously, and hops back onto the sill. Anduin rolls his eyes, but he's smiling despite himself, indulgent.

“Everything else aside, it _is_ good to see you,” he says sincerely, and Wrathion smirks.

“Naturally,” he says, but he’s quite satisfied - all in all, this went at least as well as he had expected.

“Please don't give any of my guard a conniption in the next six hours,” Anduin says, “just come through the Keep, they'll know to expect you.”

Wrathion nods gravely in acknowledge.

“No promises,” he says, and swings back through the window. He's ebullient as he leaves, and when he sees Captain Rivers walking outside the Keep, drops directly out of the air behind him as much for the fun of frightening him as to have a very stiff word.

*

He considers scaling the wall again anyway, but Rivers seemed sincere in his hollered threats to put him in stocks - they wouldn't present more than a momentary irritation, but they _would_ be irritating, and more importantly, it didn't seem politic given his current plans to conduct operations out of Stormwind for the foreseeable future.

So he arrives very politely, and lets one of the castle flunkies lead him through to the outer rooms of Anduin's personal chambers.

It's clear he's moved into his fathers’ rooms, with lush soft furnishings in softly patterned blues and embroidered golds, arranged to receive visitors around a low oak table near a huge, elaborate fireplace. All artisan make, nothing antique, given the ransacking bare decades ago, but clearly designed in the antique styles Stormwind has favored for generations, and still largely older than Anduin himself. It's all artfully arranged and conceived for the space, save a single, cramped writing desk, shoved awkwardly up against a wall to allow anyone seated to see out over the lake.

A portrait sits above the fireplace of a young woman about Anduin’s age, holding an infant - his mother, given the resemblance. It's very skillfully done, personality shining from every stroke, sweet temper and determination clear in her face. He comes by it honestly, then.

Anduin’s standing below it, reading something. He's in much the same outfit, though he has since both added and later removed elements - a heavy, officious looking jacket over one arm and gloves clasped loosely in the same hand, as though he had begun to take them off and been distracted.

“Thank you, Larsa,” he says absently upon his announcement, scarcely looking up.

And then blinks, and looks back. Wrathion preens.

That afternoon had been a reminder; he had clearly neglected to update his own form appropriately with the passage of time, and the human inability to truly look past physical form would quickly prove vexing if not dealt with. His own form had grown significantly, and so it was only proper that his human form should also - he was going to be large, but much more serpentine and delicately featured than his father. It was a pity that human forms could not truly reflect the beauty he was inheriting, but he did his best with what he had to work with.

He'd seriously considered incorporating his horns into the form - they were lovely - but they would certainly cause more difficulty than they were worth, at least for the time being; Auntie Onyxia’s neck was very long, even in death. He left the turban off for the evening - it would only obscure the point he was trying to make - and pulled his hair to a middling sort of length so he could at least give the suggestion of the sweeping curve of his horns with the fall of it.

“Did… did you make yourself taller than me?”

“I allowed my growth to be properly reflected in my human form,” he says, and Anduin’s face does something very odd - as though he's not sure whether to laugh, or be annoyed. He folds the letter carefully, slips it into the envelope still in his hand and folds it all up into the little writing desk, clicking it closed.

“So what brings you to this part of the world? Where have you been, the last few years?”

He tells him about Northrend - Anduin’s never been there, and is quick as ever with questions, so he finds himself sketching out his impressions of the steamy rainforest of the Sholazar Basin, the terrible and ethereal beauty of Crystalsong. He avoids speaking of Dragonblight, and surprisingly, Anduin doesn't press him.

They're served at a small table - barely cooked steaks, and an assortment of well seasoned vegetable matter, which he politely ignores. He can eat it, but it isn't his favorite, and he doesn't require the same endlessly variety of vitamins that humans seem to need in order to persevere. The steak is a good sign, though - Anduin's dislike of meat too close to its raw state, though always politely understated, was quite genuine and appears to not have faded in the intervening years.

He brings his best to the table, as charming a dinner guest as he's ever been, and by the time they're finishing Anduin is shining back at him with all of the fondness he'd so carefully cultivated during their time at the Tavern of the Mists. Back then it had been almost as much for the sake of finding out if he could - through force of personality alone, without assistance or suggestion from his _particular_ talents - build such a relationship. It had been a quite gratifying success, and Anduin had proved an extremely pleasing target, even aside from his appealing future utility as crown prince.

Now, it's to lay groundwork - it was important to have himself at best advantage, for both worldly concerns and personal ones. Anduin’s always been a little tiresome on the former.

“Humanity’s distaste for dealing with them permanently is the only thing that has kept the Horde a present threat, and they will continue to fuss until you put them down for good,” he's urging, and Anduin is rolling his eyes. He's always been difficult on this topic, too caught up in ‘right to self determination’ to be entirely practical. After all, the dead cannot self determine.

Well.

Mostly.

“I don't think you're really bringing anything different to the table here in terms of arguments, Wrathion. Didn't we have basically this exact conversation five years ago?”

“I had hoped that your experiences in this war might have moved you somewhat, especially in the wake of all that unpleasantness with Hellscream.”

“Unple -why do you downplay the worst things?” Anduin says tiredly, and Wrathion snaps his teeth, flaring with irritation.

“Would you prefer I did not, little King? As you wish, then. Given the broad-scale destruction that the current Warchief is causing through her determination and inability to back down from ill considered plans, your fathers’ contemptible decision to leave the Horde intact has resulted in a far larger loss of life than the difficulties presented by taking Mulgore at the time ever would have.”

“He didn't do it because it would be hard, Wrathion, he did it because it's what was right.” His voice is mild, but tired, as though repeating some well worn idiom.

“Given your own near-death and prolonged recovery - still not complete, don't think it has escaped my notice that your joints are causing you some discomfort this evening - at the hands of the previous Warchief, who showed no true remorse at any point for any of his actions, I had hoped that you had good sense enough to consider that these issues may be fundamental to the culture of the faction as it currently exists.” Wrathion’s aiming for persuasive, but he's fairly certain it's simply coming through as tart, given how Anduin’s eyebrows are climbing. He presses on anyway. “The more soldiers are sacrificed to this war, the smaller the army to face off against our true enemies. You _cannot_ afford to coddle their feelings any longer.”

“Is that your entire position?” Anduin seems remarkably unfazed, certainly compared to how this would have gone a few years ago - almost bored, in fact.

“Essentially,” he huffs, “there are further particulars, and I have suggestions on how it may be accomplished, but I believe that covers the broad strokes.”

Anduin tilts the wine bottle to him in wordless offer.

“…no, thank you,” he says primly. Anduin shrugs, refills his own glass and takes a moment to sip at it, pensive.

“You know, you're sounding a lot like Genn,” he says finally. “You should band together. I doubt it would change my mind, but I’m sure you could come up with something very convincing if you put your heads together.”

“I wouldn't expect to get on particularly well with Greymane,” Wrathion huffs, and Anduin shrugs.

“Probably not. You both do seem to like haranguing me about morality being inconvenient though, at least where the Horde are concerned.”

“Inconvenie… _now_ who's downplaying?”

“Me,” Anduin says, and grins at him for a moment before sobering.

“I know you take preserving Azeroth seriously, and of course I want that too, but not at any cost. There's got to be something that’s worth saving, when we’re all said and done, or what's the point?”

“Morality is an indulgence of the living. Principles will not keep your heart beating, or stem the flow of the lifeblood of Azeroth.”

“I don't know that its as bleak as all that. And that which doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, right?” he says the latter half jokingly, and Wrathion regards him seriously through half-closed eyes.

“I haven't found that to be so. More often, that which almost kills you leaves fault lines to be exploited. Your bones are weaker than they would have been, to repeat the example. But that which doesn't kill you, you might yet recover from.”

Anduin seems to consider this, looking into his glass as though wine might hold some answer.

“The Horde as a faction is culturally significant to a lot of races that are part of it. I can't take that away and feel good about it, Wrathion. Anyway,the inevitable uprisings would be at least as distracting and costly as what's going on now, and the effect on morale across the board would be terrible, being on the brink of civil war all the time.”

Wrathion considers this. He's wrong, of course - uprisings are not so difficult to deal with as he seems to think - but if he has had close facsimiles of his own arguments in his ear for this entire time - and considering how calm he is about it, there’s no cause to doubt him on that - there's no point in continuing to push them in their current form. He'll need to reassess.

“What does this speech sound like flavored for Sylvanas?” Anduin asks. It's not accusing - if anything, he seems genuinely curious. “Have you decided that yet, or did you stop by Lordaeron on your way here?”

“She is far too unpredictable for my liking. I do believe you're the most appropriate choice to lead the mortal races of those currently available.”

He pauses, and then grins as disconcertingly as he can, showing off the sharpness of all of his teeth.

“I might take Bloodhoof, in a pinch. Maybe Theron.”

Anduin rolls his eyes skyward.

"Windrunner is certainly crafty, and far less likely than the last Warchief who sought war to sabotage herself with blind prejudice and short tempered idiocy, but her allies won't stand for the Scourge." Wrathion says more seriously. "Not for long, and nor should they."

“Always nice to be the lesser evil.”

Wrathion laughs, letting his eyes flash. “I will reconsider my arguments, and return to you. I would prefer to convince you than to seek an alternative.”

“That's nice to hear,” Anduin says, and he does seem genuinely pleased, if somewhat droll about it. “But what else is troubling you? I get the feeling this isn't the only big thing you wanted to talk about.”

“I concern myself with anything that impacts the world,” he says loftily, and Anduin throws a grape at him. He snaps it out of the air, and smirks when Anduin claps mockingly.

“But you are correct, in this case. My presence here is to any number of ends, but there is one in particular which concerns you to any great extent,” he says. He leans forward, catches one of Anduin’s hands and fixing him in place with his best intense look. It's difficult to accomplish intensity without unnerving most mortals, given how draconic he keeps his eyes - it seems to set off some kind of instinctive wariness - but he's fairly certain he's accomplished it.

“It has been a number of years since we saw each other, and the time has come that we should both be considering the next stages of our lives - and who we want beside us when we move into them.” He impresses as much sincerity into his voice as he can, but Anduin’s beginning to look alarmed.

“Wrathion -”

“Please, dear friend. Let me finish.”

He doesn't subside at all, though there's traces of what could be a smile around his eyes, if it weren't sad.

“I don't think I should. It sounds a great deal like you're going to propose something impossible, or at least quite ill advised.”

He lifts Anduin’s hand to his mouth.

“Impossible how?” He breathes against his knuckles. He knows his eyes are smoldering like this, piercing, because he spent some time perfecting the expression in preparation.

Anduin pauses.

“I'm… not really sure where to start.”

“Practically, if you please.”

“Well, firstly, I am required to provide heirs for the political stability of the kingdom, as well as the continuation of my line.”

“There have been previous kings who have not. One of your kings kept a prince consort not four generations previous to you,” Wrathion says dismissively.

“King Allayn had siblings, Wrathion. And at least one cousin. The second War thinned my house down to a point.”

“This is an entirely surmountable problem.”

“I don't see how,” he says archly, looking him up and down.

“Why, Anduin,” he says, affecting a wounded tone, “don't you trust me?”

“Not for a minute,” he says. “It's also not the only issue, even though it's the most obvious. I'm a King, Wrathion, with duty to consider to my people and my faction. My marriage needs to serve a political end, not just a personal one. I can't afford to do anything that might jeopardize that.” 

Wrathion huffs a little in annoyance.

“I would be a powerful ally in my own right, and my Blacktalons bring a great deal more to the table that even your famous secret service may realize.”

Anduin snorts.

“Yes, but you're a single person. It doesn't serve to bring together two peoples who may otherwise have been distant. And that’s even more important right now, when we're asking people to fight for us - including some pretty distant allies. Also, my people have a bad history with the black dragonflight. They trust me, but marrying one might well be a bridge too far. Neither of us would enjoy the likely intervention.”

This make take _slightly_ more thought than originally anticipated. “I don't believe that these concerns were nearly as pressing in Pandaria,” he says, feeling a little sullen. He's in fact quite sure that if he'd smiled the right way, Anduin would have toppled directly into his bed without any of this depth of consideration.

“Well, we aren't in Pandaria any more.” He softens a little. “It _has_ been years, Wrathion - you're right, but I've spent a lot of time thinking about it. And I'm not entirely the same person I was then.”

“I believe these concerns are surmountable, given some time to consider them,” he announces, and Anduin bites his lip, completely fails to suppress a smile. He also still hasn't taken his hand back, and he squeezes it, making Wrathion’s claws click together.

“Trust you to treat this as a negotiation.”

“Isn't it?”

“I think usually it isn't, no.”

“As you've already noted, you are not a typical case. I also did not fail to notice that your own feelings - or lack thereof - have not been raised at any point.”

“I think you know very well how I feel about you,” he says quietly, “and probably have for a long time.”

Of course he does - he'd have approached the entire matter quite differently if he wasn't sure. But he wasn't sure enough of his own capacity to navigate the situation - still wasn't, in fact, but the window was rapidly closing and Anduin really was too clever by half; it was doubtful he wouldn't intuit that Wrathion had been involved if he had to have some interloper assassinated, which would set his suit back years. Too long, given the appallingly short life mortals could reasonably be expected to lead.

“I believe proof of our compatibility is important to presenting my argument in full. As such, I would like to kiss you.”

Anduin breathes in slowly, eyes darkening.

“That’s a pretty contrived reason,” he says, “but all right.”

Wrathion lets that pass, stands and tugs Anduin to his feet with their still joined hands, curls his other hand against his waist.

“I still can't believe that you made yourself taller than me,” he teases lightly, but his breathing is a little faster, and his voice is very warm.

“I don't think you'll have any objections,” Wrathion replies, and kisses him.

He's judged their heights quite well, in his opinion - he has to bend to bring their mouths together, but not uncomfortably or overly so, just enough to justify crowding him a little bit.

And Anduin _does_ seems to like it, leaning into him after not very long at all. His eyes close, and his mouth opens, warm and sweet. Wrathion slides their tongues together, and Anduin shivers - his tongue is a little more draconic than strictly necessary, but every time he's attempted a human one it sits uncomfortably in his mouth, a strange weight he's constantly aware of.

Anduin strokes the side of his face with his free hand, and when he pulls back Wrathion nips at his lower lip delicately.

He's always been forceful about what he wants, in the past - he _is_ a dragon, after all - but given what he wants in Anduin, it will require a more delicate touch than he is accustomed to. He's not naturally inclined towards patience, but that certainly doesn't mean it's out of his reach.

“It's not that I don't want to be convinced,” Anduin says quietly, “but I've been looking for a way around it since I met you, and I haven't found one yet.”

“Thankfully, you'll find I am exceptionally resourceful.”


	2. Chapter 2

He meets Taelia “call me Tae!” Fordragon within three days of arriving in Stormwind by carefully arranging to be in the area when the guard - who she has ingratiated herself with quickly and completely - practice. A slightly risky endeavor, as they don't allow spectators and Captain Rivers becomes thunderous whenever Wrathion is within his eye-line, but the observation is useful.

She’s very much a trained warrior, and spends as much time as one would expect in keeping it up. Anduin is and was always faithful to the regimen he's set, of course, but precisely, a chore he undertakes with grim responsibility, whereas she seems to delight in the competitive violence - enough it would give him some hope, if it weren’t for the _sunniness_ belying it. 

She'd stuck her hand out to shake, breathless and bright-eyed, exclaimed delightedly “oh, Anduin’s mentioned you - I've never met a dragon before!”

She is, if anything, even more troubling than reports had led him to believe. But she's also compulsively friendly, insisting he come along to breakfast with her the next morning which she is taking with Anduin, helping cement everyday access slightly faster than anticipated.

Clearly infatuated with him, she's naturally endearing in much the same way as Anduin himself - intelligent, with a wry sense of humor and a sweet, soft heart writ enormous on her sleeve. She's also the daughter of the old Regent and ward of house Proudmoore, making her ‘very much family, Wrathion, so _be nice_.’

She also shares with Anduin that tendency to be unshaken and unintimidated by Wrathion’s antics, laughing off veiled threats and calling him immediately on his more outrageous statements.

It's unfortunate that he sees very little of Anduin without her, but it can't be helped, and as long as she is in the same position it can be borne while he considers the problem. Also, she is occasionally terse about his teasing, “you can be rather mean to him sometimes, Anduin.”

He had swallowed an extremely affronted look to apologize, which Wrathion accepted magnanimously, and made her presence almost worth putting up with.

So instead he bends himself to charming her, and she proves exceptionally quick to warm to him - he is extremely charming, of course, even for his flight, but she's also obviously lonely in this new place, seeking out traces of her father and spending a lot of time with her gryphon, a great silvery beast that she dotes on. They’re stupid animals, and he doesn’t much like them.

She blossoms under his attention like a flower turning to the sun, and he explores Stormwind with her chatter light in the air. It's all really quite well done - Anduin’s obvious pleasure at their getting along so well is gratifying (and better her as the token almost-family approving of him than being stuck trying to convince the Lady Jaina, he would have had a better shot with Varian), and she both fills his time pleasantly and provides a virtuous cover for touching base with the Blacktalons he has hidden throughout the city.

He'd almost be fond of her, if her own interest in Anduin wasn't such a clear threat to his plans - especially twice tied to Kul Tiras (their “most recent ally, and probably our most perilous in terms of public opinion, though not leadership” per reports he certainly was not privy to).

They're taking tea between Anduin’s endless, deeply boring meetings, which is a rare treat - very occasionally, if they're within the Keep during the day, a servant will summon them to find a plate of biscuits and a charming little blue tea service set out in his receiving room, which he'll treat with such reverence it can only have been a gift. 

Between Taelia’s earnest smiles and his own sly ones they've already pulled him out of the sad, serious mood he entered in, which is a victory. They can't, always, sometimes he stays quiet and sad eyed, because while he has hardened somewhat this whole King business is still a bit much for someone as soft hearted as he is.

It's an _annoying_ victory today, however, because Anduin is cheered by the opportunity to tease him to Taelia, who is altogether too amused by it.

“He grew half a foot over an afternoon when he realized I was taller,” Anduin confides, not bothering to repress his grin.

“That's a neat trick,” she says, mouth twitching, and he scowls.

“I was _already_ bigger than you are.”

“Are you now? You were no bigger than a very large cat, last I saw you, which was not so long ago in dragon years.’

‘He's a toddler,” he stage whispers to Taelia.

“I'm a dragon!”

“He's a _dragon_ toddler.”

“Come with me,” Wrathion demands, and sweeps out of the room. Anduin follows him into the drawing room, leans against the wall with an indulgent look. Taelia doesn't follow immediately, peering after them and hurrying through her sandwich.

“What are you showing us, exactly?”

He looks around the room before deciding he doesn't care about the furniture anyway and it can take its chances - that's Anduin’s problem to address - and snaps into his true form.

Anduin’s gratifyingly surprised, suddenly straightens up, eyes sharp - and equally gratifying, he's clearly impressed.

“Quite a bit larger than last you saw me,” Wrathion says smugly, settling low on his haunches.

“You are at that,” Anduin says, eyes roaming over him.

Wrathion was a fine whelp, and is quite pleased with his progression into drakehood. His horns have come in as a sweeping curl that frames his face very nicely, and his head is more triangular than his aunt and uncle ever were, almost delicate.

He's attractively sinuous, and very agile in the air, with none of that awkward droop that many other drakes he's seen have. Black is also a much better color than any of the other flights, a deep base against which the prismatic effect of their scales shows to best effect, so in the right light he becomes a deep, rippling pool of color.

“Tell me,” he demands, and is displeased when it comes out a little plaintive. Anduin makes a show of looking him over as he walks around him. He reaches a hand out to run along his neck almost absently as he approaches Wrathion’s head again. He's feigning an assessing look, but his eyes are very soft.

Wrathion raises his head up and to the side a little in a way he knows gives a very nice effect, and breathes just the tiniest amount of smoke from his nostrils.

“You're growing up very nicely,” Anduin says obediently, and Wrathion snaps playfully at him.

“Easily the most beautiful dragon I’ve ever seen,” he corrects himself, though the way he says it is teasing, “would you prefer I stroke your neck or your ego?”

“I believe you will find that they are not mutually exclusive,” Wrathion says haughtily, and flickers his tongue out cheekily to lick at Anduin’s face, making him laugh.

“Oh Wrathion,” comes a quiet voice from the door, “you're _beautiful_.”

He turns his eyes without moving his head - Taelia has a hand hovering near her mouth, eyes shining with sincerity as she looks him over.

“He knows it, too,” Anduin says.

He does, of course, but “That doesn't mean I don't like to _hear_ about it sometimes,” he says huffily, and Anduin smiles at him, sweet and private.

“ _Sometimes,_ ” he repeats mockingly.

“You can't even see my wings in here,” he tells Taelia smugly, “they're very fine. Perhaps we should adjourn to where you may both admire me better.”

Anduin catches Taelia’s eye, face still soft and affectionate, and winks. She smiles shyly back at him.

“You may touch me,” he says magnanimously, and she giggles, but does.

“Your hide is in very good repair,” she says, “do you need to do anything to care for it? Are you really very young? You're almost as big as a gryphon.”

He'd be more offended by the… _animal husbandry_ of it if she wasn't so clearly enamored of him, and if her hands weren't blissfully sure and capable where she rubbed at his wing joints, relieving minor tension he hadn't been aware of carrying. He lays down to allow her better access, butts at Anduin’s legs until he sits down obediently and rests his head in his lap.

For all of their huffing about propriety, humans become astonishingly touchy as soon as you're not human shaped any more. Not ha the carries any complaints about it - Taelia’s got an unerringly good sense for the spots that itch uncomfortably and relieving them, both of them are appropriate impressed when he flashes teeth at them, and Anduin seems to forget his reservations a little - warm hands stroking the fine, flexible scales on his neck as they chat, tracing the shape of his brow-bone.

He's only half paying attention, then, when the conversation turns from him to something else, until Taelia’s expresses a wistful desire to see Ironforge and travel the deeprun tram.

“We can go tomorrow,” he says lazily; he's paying more attention to how to angle himself beneath Anduin’s warm hands so he'll pay attention to the little raised patch behind his horn, and his back so he can twitch his wings up where Taelia will find a patagium. They both oblige him, and he chirps with it, indolently pleased.

“Really?”

“I don't see why not. If you take your beast, we can go down into Dun Morogh. There are snow rabbits everywhere, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Do _you_ like that sort of thing?” She's biting her lip as though she thinks she's caught him out in something,  & Anduin hides his mouth behind his hand, watching her. “A secret affection for bunnies?”

“They taste all right,” he says primly, “I'm no great fan of preparing them, though. Skinning is so unpleasant.”

She looks startled, and then laughs.

“All right,” she says, “we'll make a day of it. No rabbits, though.”

*

Her gryphon is a well-trained, good mannered beast, but gryphons are still largely stupid. It refuses point blank to go underground, so when they go in, they do it alone.

Taelia’s tourist routine is amusing, at least, and she keeps up a stream of bright chatter as they rush underground - at least until they hit the water tunnel; she goes completely silent at that point, staring up underneath the ocean.

“Still enjoying the Eastern Kingdoms?”

“It's so beautiful,” she says, awed. “Don't get me wrong, I love Kul Tiras, but I could stay here forever.”

The ocean passes overhead, and they're back in the dim light of the tunnels, nothing but the soft clack of the tram beneath them.

“You've been everywhere, haven't you? How long will you stay in Stormwind, do you think?”

“I'm not sure,” he says pensively, “I could become quite well established there, it's conveniently central.”

“Central to your spy web?” She says, not without cheek, and he narrows his eyes at her. “I'm pretty bright, you know,” she tells him mildly.

“Evidently so.”

When they arrive in Ironforge he flourishes a bow, taking her hand to lead her off the tram. She giggles and plays along, tucks her hand into his arm.

She's delighted by Tinker Town, exclaiming over everything, convincing various engineers to explain their contraptions to her, listening intently as she pets a mechanical squirrel as gently as though it were alive, and overall proceeds to charm half the city so artlessly that he's intrigued. Anduin has always had some amount of the trick of it, collecting up aunts and uncles the way other people might collect shells on the seashore, but he sees her have strangers treating her like the pretty daughter of their best friend inside of half an hour.

And, by extension, himself as a rakish young man to be interrogated on his intentions. They don't quite get there, but he has four gnomes and three dwarves tell him some variation on “now you take good care of her, young man.”

They pass by the Great Forge, but don't go too close.

“It's certainly very hot,” she says wryly.

“Lava _is_ known for that, yes.”

She looks slyly at him when they reach the Military Ward, and suggests he go find them something to eat, “or otherwise occupy yourself for an hour or so while I stay here and keep myself out of your way.”

He huffs smoke dramatically to make her laugh, but does take the opportunity, slipping into the dark corners of the city to make his presence known to those faithful to him. He doesn't need to be near them to speak with them, but it helps keep them faithful to see him occasionally, experience the full force of his personality focused upon them. Most people are far more susceptible to his particular charms than Anduin and Taelia, and it does him some good to be reminded.

They stop for lunch at a charming little inn, wander down the mountain.

He teases her for the wide eyed ingenue routine, and she looks a little drawn suddenly, a little sad.

“I'm more world weary than you think,” Taelia says.

“You speak with remarkable confidence on what I think, little warrior.”

“You speak with remarkable mystery in what you think, little dragon,” she says, voice pitched low in poor imitation. He huffs.

“Maybe you're just obvious to me,” she twinkles at him, “I’ve seen you around Anduin.”

He freezes. He'd not intended to have a conversation about any of this for at least a few more weeks - he's sure of how to bypass the children aspect, but negotiating treaties will take more time, and if she pushes her suit before his is shored up and strong, he may have to dispose of her. And he finds, standing in the cold while she twinkles at him prettily, that he doesn't want to.

“Oh, don't look so tense, I've seen the way he looks at you too,” she says, a self-deprecating note in her voice. Triumph blooms in his chest, small and hot - and, to his surprise and annoyance, a little discomforting.

“I'm working on the situation,” he says, “there are… logistics to consider.”

She looks thoughtful.

“How much control do you have over your human form? It's basically total, right?”

He slants her an annoyed look.

“I'm a dragon,” he says patiently, “this form is useful, but it's essentially a projection. There's some magic to the creation of life that I cannot give or receive when in a shape that's not my own.”

Her face spasms.

“Taelia,” he says sharply, and she buries her face in her hands.

“I'm sorry!” she yelps, “I was raised by soldiers!”

He finds himself covering his face with one hand, and feels almost sorry for Anduin for the number of times he's caused him to do it. Her mirth passes quickly though, back to that self-deprecating sadness.

“I should go back to Kul Tiras,” she says. Her voice is sad, usual brightness made small and cold, distant as starlight. “At least for a little while. Or out to one of the war fronts, maybe. I could be of use there.”

“Absolutely _not_ ,” he says hotly, and her eyes snap to his, clearly surprised at his vehemence.

“I can't move past it if I'm right here” she says, “I can't even - he talks like I'm his _sister_ , Wrathion, and you're probably my best friend. I feel like an idiot.”

“You certainly are _not_ an idiot. I cannot abide them, to begin with.”

“Wrathion -”

“I'll fix it,” he snaps. “I am _very_ smart, and I will _fix it._ ”

Her eyes grow very large as he says it. She gives him a tremulous smile, and nearly knocks him over with the force of a sudden hug.

The hilt of her short sword digs uncomfortably into his hip, but she's warm in his arms, an interesting combination of hard muscle and soft, giving flesh, and she smells very nice. He wonders idly if she would be as artlessly sweet to kiss as she is in everything else. She tilts her head back to look at him, and her eyes are wet.

“I'm so glad I met you,” she tells him, “I don't think I could have abided in Stormwind on my own for so long.”

“I'm not nearly as nice as you seem to think,” he cautions her, “in fact, I'm really not very nice at all.”

She steps back and scrubs at her face, embarrassed.

“Well, you're nice to me,” she says stoutly, “and you're nice to Anduin, and the royal guard could use a bit of meanness, it keeps them on their toes.”

He'll have to turn it over for a little while to be sure, but he may have found his solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next week, on ‘haha what if more toddler than dragon’: an entire plot development that’s an extended in joke on amazon’s dragon romance conventions
> 
> i hope yall are having fun with this because its a straight laugh riot for me no lies :*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Dragon romance readers are very particular,' sharpestrose told me in a taxi once, 'you have to ride the dragon, and it has to be away from something.'

It's a productive day, all in all, and Wrathion's in high spirits when decide to make their way back towards Ironforge from where they'd wandered off so that Tae could look at snowshoe rabbits (she did like that sort of thing, as it turned out, carefully quiet so as not to disturb them but eyes sparkling in delight as they’d moved in easy lopes across the ground, ears bobbing in easy arcs across their soft backs).

That might be why, by the time he notices the invaders, they’re effectively trapped.

He’s had an odd tickling at the edges of his mind most of the day, only high enough to become irritating now. He’s clearly grown far too complacent over the last few years, because when he turns his mind towards it, it’s sheer luck that leaves him undiscovered. The whispering is draconic, the burnt carbon sensation that hangs about the vowels signalling his own corrupted flight.

He seizes Tae by the arm, hard and deathly silent. She’s well trained enough to still entirely, turning only her eyes towards him. They’re a little off the road, and she follows his line of vision, clearly puzzled when she can’t see anything.

Now that how knows what he’s looking for, he can hear them as well, the ominous rattle of armor, barely audible - likely beyond her hearing - the ring of dozens of boots on the road, muffled by whispering magic.

He works a glove off as discreetly as possible with one hand. It’s a little awkward, but he pierces his palm with a single sharp claw and tilts his hand to puddle the small drop as it wells up, closes his fist to form a small gem.

They’re just starting to come into view now through the trees - a band of what look to be humans in Stormwind colors but their movement is wrong, off, and they’re running out of time. He tucks the gem past the wrist of her glove so it falls against her palm, held to her skin by leather, and pulls her mind close enough to his to show her what he sees.

_Forsaken?_

Her mind is startled, but she recovers admirably.

_At least fifty, maybe more - how would they get this far into Dun Morogh? Isn't the war front still in Kalimdor?_

_A play to divide Alliance forces,_ Wrathion thinks grimly.

_We can't just leave them to charge through to Ironforge!_

_Risking our lives won't help anyone._

He reaches out to one of his Blacktalons - there are three in Ironforge, and it will be a real shame to lose anonymity on any of them, but the surprise will do too much damage to risk. It will also serve to endear him to the Ironforge council, at least, which will at least prove useful in the long term. He sends through a rapid set of visual impressions, and breaks contact after grim acknowledgment.

While he was distracted, Tae’s loosened her short sword in its scabbard, moved subtly to place herself in front of him. _Warriors._

 _We're going to have to fly,_ he tells her _I'll change and you need to take hold immediately, because it might attract attention._

_Into what?_

_My true form - I'll need all my concentration to keep us hidden._

_You're too small!_ her voice is uncomfortably loud in his mind, alarmed, _I’ll hurt you!_

 _Injury is far easier to heal than death,_ he tells her tartly, _Let me be the judge of what I can handle and_ get on.

He transforms - the crackle of fir pins beneath his feet sound like a shot, but there's no help for it. Her hesitation thrums loud through their connection, and swings around to bare his teeth in a silent snarl. She falls back a step, eyes huge.

_Last chance before I pick you up in my claws and we will find out for sure if I'm as weak as you think!_

She climbs on.

She was right, she _is_ too big, and the strain is _awful_. After he struggles off the ground, the horrible wrench of the initial jump into the air, it's only a little easier - he’s heading straight into the sky, shooting up in plain sight of half the mountain. His wings burn terribly from the strain and the cold, stiffening immediately. They feel as if they’ll shatter into so much icy dust. But he doesn’t have time to be properly afraid, has to focus on pressing the urge to look away on every mind in the vicinity without alerting that terribly old, terribly aware presence in the distance.

Through the stress, he can feel Tae’s awe, the start of what is already a deepening well of affection and appreciation as she sees his wings at full extension, the fine membrane lightened from the gold of babyhood into an almost iridescent pearl in adolescence. The wing joint burns so badly he feels nauseated, and he lists to one side even as he claws desperately through the air, but finally they have the height they need and it’s a straight shot into the flight hallway above the huge gate, higher than any but gryphons and dragons might hope to reach.

He lands heavily, collapsing immediately and quite painful onto his belly. Tae’s thrown hard from his back - she falls well, tucks in one shoulder and rolls, but impacts the wall hard enough to still be wheezing as she struggles to her feet to stumble back over to him.

“Are you okay?”

“Cover,” he hisses, “further in.” She leans hard into his side, helps him struggle along with her until they're about halfway along the huge cut in the wall, huddled against the wall and then squats next to him, looking him over with a critical eye.

“That has to have been really bad for you,” she says, and starts feeling along his neck with capable, clinical hands, then down his back - when she reaches his wing joint a spike of pain goes deep into his shoulder and he squeals in surprise, wing snapping up reflexively. The outer joint smacks directly into her solar plexus, which hurts as well, but has the satisfying side effect of making her stagger back and fall over, half-winded.

“That _hurts_ ,” he snaps, tucking his wing back in closely around him.

“Because you are hurt - I’m checking the damage, not doing it.”

“I'm not a gryphon or a pet, and you are not a priest, so leave me alone.”

“You're right,” she snaps back, “Galeheart is never so rude about it!”

“Don't compare me to your gryphon!”

“Stop being such a baby!”

“I _am_ a baby!” he shouts, “I'm barely five!” and buries his snout under his forelegs, shaking.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and the adrenaline is already starting to drain out of him, leaving him shivering - now he's not moving, the flyway is near enough to a wind tunnel to be bitingly cold and his burning joints are beginning to ache in a deep, frightening way.

“You must have grown very fast,” she says hesitantly.

“I have,” he says miserably, “usually I'd stay the same size I hatched to for decades. But most whelplings develop peacefully in their eggs under the watch of a parent, and I very much did not, so there are bound to be differences.”

Usually he's pleased about it, but right then he's not - wishes very badly that he was still a tubby whelpling, small enough to curl in a lap, small enough to be comfortably carried, hidden inside a warm jacket.

He really does feel remarkably sorry for himself, and it's a new feeling - he's spent his short life plotting to keep himself out of a position where he's in direct danger, and has been very good at slipping out of situations before really getting hurt. The great, diffuse ache is overwhelming when he’s still and lightning sharp when he moves, and he doesn't have any idea of how to cope with or ignore it.

“I'm sorry,” she says eventually, and she sounds it, voice heavy and quiet, “I don't think you're a pet, or - or more of an animal than I am, or something. I know you're a person. But I really do know a bit about flight muscles, and I'm worried.”

“Fine,” he snuffles after a moment. She’s far gentler about it this time, and if he still whimpers under her hands, that's not anyone’s business.

“You've strained yourself pretty badly,” she says finally, “I'm going to have to keep waking you up, because if you don't move it regularly, it's going to stiffen up and you won't be able to move at all. Can you transform? Get smaller, maybe?”

“No,” he says shortly. It would undoubtedly be better, safer, but he feels woozy, and magic seems a poor idea.

She pulls the padded tunic she's wearing over her head. Her arms are covered in goosebumps, but they flex impressively as she stands on the edge and rips up the side seams in a single, sharp movement. She throws it over his back, covers his shoulders and wing joints as best she can, and he huddles beneath it miserably.

“It's not much,” she says, “but it's better than nothing. I wish it wasn't so cold up here.”

“I wish we hadn't come at all,” he grumps, and guilt lances across her face.

“I'm sorry,” she says, and her voice actually wobbles a little bit, “I hate that you're hurt.”

“I'm cold,” he says, and doesn't even care that his voice is pitiful. Now he isn't moving the pain is only getting worse, and the wooziness is intensifying as well; he feels fuzzy and dim.

She settles down beside him, curls carefully against his side, angled to be as much of a windbreak as she can.

“I'll wake you up in a little while, okay? Try to sleep if you can. It'll help.”

He goes to sleep.

*

When he wakes up, it's because she's shouting, standing over him with her sword drawn. She looks dangerous like that even from behind, loose limbed and eminently competent, even as the tip of her sword trembles with her shivering.

The pain in back is less until he moves, and then it's _hideous_ , but at least he can think through it again.

“She said she knows you,” she says cautiously, “but I don't know her.”

“You called me here,” a high voice says tartly - Gidea, one of his Blacktalons, and behind her a gryphon of the breed that Ironforge uses for their taxi service.

“What do you mean, called?” she says cautiously, and Gidea scowls.

“Can we talk about this somewhere else? This is a thoroughfare, and a very cold one, at that.”

Wrathion stretches his neck out, pushes his head against Tae’s side.

“She's one of mine,” he says raggedly, “lets go.”

Tae sheathes her sword reluctantly.

“You go down first then,” she says, “we won't all fit.”

“Put on the tunic,” he tells her, “I'm going to try something.”

“Wrathion -”

“Stop arguing with me,” he hisses, and she recoils in surprise but acquiesces, lifts the tunic from where it’s still slung over him and shrugs it over her head. It flaps around her until she gets a belt settled over the top and then it just gapes.

“Pick me up,” he says, and reaches for a new form.

The whisper of misplaced air, an alarming scrape against the core of his magic, and he's a small black cat. The ground is icy beneath the thin pads of his feet. She scoops him up hurriedly, careful hands supporting him beneath his chest and under his back legs. He yowls - his shoulders still _hurt_ \- but she shoves him between the tunic and the thin cloth of her shirt, curls an arm around the outside to keep him in place and press it closed. It’s abruptly close and quiet and quickly getting warmer.

“Okay,” she says to him softly, “this will be a little rough, but try not to claw me up.”

It's a little nerve-wracking as she climbs one-handed onto the gryphon behind Gidea, but she's an old hand at gryphons, and has a good seat. Her heartbeat is loud in his ears, and once they’re in Ironforge proper, the cold dissipates very quickly and he’s so, so tired.

“We should take you to a healer,” Tae says, fretful; the rumble through her chest as she speaks is oddly comforting. He would usually take some time to thank Gidea, shore up gratitude from the council, but he hurts, and he’s tired, and he doesn't _want_ to.

“I want Anduin,” he demands piteously.

“Please,” she says quietly.

He makes a sad little yowling noise, too tired for anything else, and she doesn't ask again.

He vaguely hears her thanking Gidea, and there's moving again until the warm stone smell of Ironforge gives way to the cool, metal-magic of the tram.

She asks quietly if he wants to turn back, and he curls tighter against her and doesn't reply, so she sits cross legged on the floor of the tram car and eases him down into her lap for the ride, still beneath her tunic, one hand buried in his fur.

He struggles to consciousness for as long as he can, talking to Gidea, but it's disjointed and fuzzy. In the end, he dozes fitfully for most of the journey.

The battle, such as it was, was short and brutal. The forsaken soldiers had clearly been relying on the element of surprise and the confusion caused by their livery at distance - likely selected for their resemblance to the living rather than their battle acumen, Gidea tells him darkly - but her warning made all the difference, and they were put down with ruthless efficiency before they made it all the way up the mountain, gate grinding closed beneath them as he slept.

Tae called her to them when she couldn't wake him by digging the little jewel out of her glove, pressing it against him so they were both touching it, and thinking about their location loudly and in as much detail as she could. Her fear had bled through quite clearly but it had still taken Gidea nearly three hours to get to them, so by the time she got there Tae had clearly decided it didn't work and was trying to find some other way down, peering over the edge towards Ironforge. It was clever, and when he was more awake he'd tell her so.

She croons to him when she has to get up, meaningless words of comfort as she gets to her feet, still cradling him tenderly.

She makes her way slowly back through Stormwind to the Keep. It seems a lot further than usual, but by the time they get there everything is very loud, and Tae has to shout a few times to get through.

Anduin is _frantic_ , and when they appear he stands up and walks straight out of the council to wrap his arms around her shoulders, press his forehead to hers.

“Tae,” he says in relief, and then, “where's Wrathion? What are you holding?”

She pulls the tunic aside a little, and he makes a sad mewing noise.

“He flew us to safety, but he's hurt,” her voice is trembling, “he was so hard to wake up, but I'm sure he didn't hit his head, and he wouldn’t see a healer before we left.”

Then they must go somewhere, because she's laying him gently onto a rug, sliding him boneless to the floor.

“His mana is very low,” Anduin says quietly, “that's why he can't stay awake.”

“Of _course_ ,” she mutters. His hands are gentle on him, and the warm tickle of Light hums against him. It doesn't help, though.

“Wrong form,” he says tiredly, and Anduin lets loose a relieved breath.

“Back with us, are you? Can you change?”

He rolls onto his stomach. It takes a moment, and he's not sure if it will work, but he's sprawled out in his true form again. The room is warm, at least, and he's near a fireplace. Warmer again as Anduin lays hands on him, takes the ache out of his shoulders, his wing joints, smooths his hands in great sweeping arcs that leave warmth and comfort behind.

“He saved us both,” Tae says quietly, “and a lot of others, I think. One of his… spies?”

“Blacktalons,” Anduin says quietly, “they call themselves Blacktalons.”

“Well, one of them went straight to the council and told them what was happening, so they didn't even get to Ironforge.”

“I'm grateful you're both safely back to me,” Anduin tells her, “when nobody could find you…”

He's not sure what happened after that, because sleep pulls him back under in a great rolling wave.


	4. Chapter 4

When he wakes this time, it's in comfort. The sun is high, and a blanket has been slung over him at some point, furry and warm against his skin. The low table has been shoved haphazardly against the wall to make room for him, so he’s right in front of the fireplace, fire still crackling cheerily in the late morning.

“Hi there,” Anduin greets him, voice quiet.

They're in his private chambers - he locks up his little writing desk and sinks down on the floor beside him. One day, Wrathion is going to break into that thing and eat everything inside, just because he can.

“How're you feeling?”

Wrathion yawns.

“Better,” he says decisively.

“Why was your mana so low?”

“I had to keep anyone from seeing us, and the whole of Dun Morogh decided that was precisely the time to look to the skies.”

“I can't imagine why,” Anduin teases gently, “a tiny dragon with an over-sized rider shooting towards Ironforge must be such an everyday occurrence.”

“Don't be rude,” he says primly, “I'm a very good size.” He wheezes a little when Anduin wraps both arms around his neck, buries his face in it.

“You scared me,” he says tightly, “I got word there was an attack - that they were in Stormwind livery, and nobody could find you or Tae. I was so afraid they'd find you both dead in the forest somewhere.”

“Well, as we've established before, I'm both clever and resourceful.”

A soft noise makes them both turn - Tae is asleep on the couch beside him. Someone's put a blanket over her at some point as well, but she's mostly kicked it off - she hasn't changed yet, still in the same dirty white shirt, now gently dusted with cat hair.

“She didn't want to leave until you woke up,” Anduin tells him quietly, “and I didn't have the heart to make her.”

“The last thing you could be reasonably accused of is a lack of heart, Anduin Wrynn,” he says peaceably, and yawns again.

“Would you like something to eat?”

Now that it's mentioned, he's starving. While Anduin arranges to have something brought in, he reaches for his human aspect.

It's much easier than it was to transform yesterday, none of the painful grind when he tries, just an easy rush and he's lying on his stomach on the rug, blanket fluttering down over him.

He can't seem to stop _yawning_. When Anduin comes back and takes a chair Wrathion doesn't bother getting up, just scoots over to rest his head against one knee, pulling the blanket around himself.

“This is a little inappropriate,” Anduin tells him, but starts petting his hair obligingly.

“Done it before,” he says muzzily.

“Sure, when you were a dragon.”

“I'm _always_ a dragon.”

“So you are,” he says, voice soft.

“ _They_ have a dragon,” he says, and he can’t help but curl up a little more tightly, “one of my flight. I didn’t - I don’t know them, I didn’t see them directly, but I could _sense_ them.”

“Corrupted, you think?”

“I'm the only one who isn't.”

“Can you beat them?”

“I don't know,” he says, and the admission grates its way out of him, harsh and alarming. “But you cannot afford to leave me behind, Anduin. Take me with you, next you go to war.”

He looks sorely tempted for a moment, but shakes his head.

“Your advice on how to deal with it will be invaluable, but that’s all I’ll take.” Anduin tugs him up onto his knees into a fierce hug, exhales against his hair.

He draws back after a moment, instead cradling Wrathion’s head in both hands, eyes searching his. “Just keep coming back to me.”

“That _is_ the intention, little King,” he murmurs, and when Anduin presses a reverent kiss to his mouth, he's expecting it. He braces himself on Anduin’s knees and leans up into it, deepens it from the soft touch of lips to something just a little sweeter, slides his tongue into his mouth.

It's replenishing, in its own way, but he is still very tired, and sinks back down to rest against his knees and the chair again of his own accord after only a minute or two.

“Physical pain is rather more terrible than I remember,” he admits, and Anduin’s hand is gentle in his hair.

“It was probably exacerbated by your lack of mana. It sort of intensifies everything, being that low.”

“It's still low.”

“Someone’s bringing ley water with breakfast, that'll help.”

He falls asleep again, at least for a little while.

He dreams of flying, Anduin astride him. Then beside him as one of Tol’vir’s winged guardians, brilliant gold and white, Tae laughing on his back. Then they're both dragons - Anduin’s hide keeps changing, from rich blue to gold to a brilliant, pearlescent white, then back again, and they're about to be joined as consorts, no more need to plan or plot or worry.

He starts struggling back to consciousness when Anduin opens his mouth and instead of the roar he expects, joyous and deep, it's the low clink of porcelain against porcelain.

Anduin murmurs something he doesn't catch, and his knee is hard beneath his head.

“I want to bite you,” he says groggily.

“Uh. I think I'd rather you didn't? Thanks all the same.”

He sits up slowly, scrubbing at his eyes, and Anduin presses a glass into his hand.

“This'll help. Then we can eat, and see how you feel from there.”

He drinks. It's somehow both the taste and feeling of very cold water while being room temperature, and he begins to feel more awake almost immediately.

The table has been put back in its usual place, and Anduin picks over whats been brought in before handing him down a plate full of meat - sausage links, bacon, some kind of savory mince on thick toast. He dislikes the inelegance of eating on the floor, but is too hungry to fuss overmuch, just tries to be delicate while still eating as fast as he can.

Tae goes from completely asleep to completely awake in a moment. Her hair is appallingly mussed, sticking up somewhat wildly from her head, and she doesn't cover her mouth when she yawns.

Anduin holds out a danish, which she shoves into her mouth immediately before sliding down to sit cross legged on the floor at the low table next to Wrathion and devour a plate of eggs.

They're both silent and focused as they eat, and Anduin waits on them with fond patience, seemingly happy to just watch them for as long as they take.

“The counsel will be arriving this morning,” he tells them when they've both slowed to slowly picking, “they'll want to debrief you. We can do it here rather than the war room, if you'd like.”

“I don't mind either way,” Tae says, “but it might be nice to do it here. Some of them can get a bit funny about Wrathion, so if we're a bit more informal it might help them to remember he's an ally.”

She picks out one of the raspberry custard creations to pass to him, and he accepts it slowly. He did have a preference for them, but mild enough he was surprised she'd marked it.

Anduin agrees, and when servants appears to clear the table, he speaks to one of them quietly to start arranging it. Wrathion retreats to an armchair to think.

He's not sure how to proceed with this newfound protectiveness she's gained overnight. Usually a sharp display of power keeps his champions from getting too problematic, but she's seen enough of what he is capable of at this point that he's doubtful it will have much effect. Anduin seems to have touches of it as well, at least for the moment, incapable of looking away from him for too long.

This will need be a problem for later, though. King Greymane would be along shortly, if he hadn't misheard, and this was too good an opportunity to pass up, so he puts his chin in his hand and looks her over.

Tae seems to feel the weight of his eyes, looking up quizzically at him after a moment.

“May I attend to your hair?” he asks, and she blinks at him.

“If you want.”

He stands up, and she does the same when he motions to her to do so, smiles uncertainly under his examination.

“Have you met them all?” he asks idly, tugging gently at the ends of her hair. She shivers a little as magic tickles across her scalp, straightening out the tangles that have developed over the last day or so.

“Mostly,” she says, “King Greymane I met in Kul Tiras, and High Tinker Mekkatorque spoke to me last time he was here - he seems very kind. He knew my father.”

He sweeps her hair back from her face, runs his fingers slowly back, lets magic whisper from his fingers to leave behind a small braid that did little to hold her hair but gave the vague, incomplete impression of a crown.

She reaches up to touch it lightly, curious.

“Leave it be,” he admonishes her, “the effect is just as I want it.”

“Just as _you_ want it?”

“We had a conversation yesterday, in which I told you that I would attend to your current situation, and that is what I am doing. Let me work.”

She narrows her eyes, but doesn't protest as he walks in a tight circle around her, rubbing at his chin.

He tugs at her shirt, pulling it to something clean and white. The fabric is a little finer, and he pulls it down to flare further over her hips, but leaves the collar be. He rubs at the hem, thinking, and then floods the last few inches with delicate embroidery that traces the outline of ocean waves in Stormwind blue.

“Oh,” she says softly, “that's very pretty.”

“It will do,” he says, satisfied. “Just small touches, we only want to give a hint today.”

She clearly isn’t sure what he means, but trusts him to know what he’s doing. 

The debriefing starts almost immediately, Anduin returning with various members of his council just as they’ve sat themselves back down. Greymane in particular asks questions cogent enough that he heightens his estimation of his intelligence just the slightest amount, and he can see his subtle intimations of his worth as an ally to the Alliance take hold as he speaks to Mekkatorque - who makes him nervous - and Muradin. Beside him, Tae gives excellent detail. She has the practiced cadence of someone trained to do this sort of detailed reporting, at her most earnest and serious as she considers their questions.

The effects of his sartorial choices are minor, but enough - they don’t treat her with the deference of a visiting royal, but it’s certainly more than would be due a guardsman, let alone a foreign national not even ranked as formal ambassador. It will do, as a starting point.

But finally, the last person seems to have asked their fill, and when it’s just the three of them again, Anduin chases them kindly from his rooms to take their rest in real beds.

*

Tae scratches hesitantly at his door in the afternoon. She's bathed in the meantime, but left her hair and the tunic be though her pants and boots have been changed. She does look fresher though, chirpier, closer to her usual upbeat self.

“I thought I should give this back to you.”

She holds out her hand. Nestled right in the centre of her palm is the tiny, blood red gem.

“If you don't like it, I'll make you another,” he says, puzzled.

“It's not that I don't _like_ it,” she says, brow furrowed, “you made a magic trinket for an emergency, I didn't think it was a present exactly.”

He picks it up delicately, contemplating it between his claws. It's a perfectly serviceable little gem, but given time and thought he would come up with something a little more… elaborate. He crushes it.

“I'm going to pick up some minor supplies in the city,” Wrathion tells her, “will you accompany me?”

“Uh, sure - let me get my things.”

They head down into the trade district, and it takes three jewelery shops before she shows interest in anything - enough that he begins to worry she may simply not like jewelery at all - but finally, she catches her eye on a pendant.

“Are you drawn to the form, or simply the function?”

She startles; he did snake up behind her rather close to peer over her shoulder, and apparently quietly enough she hadn't noticed.

“Uh, the uh - it's pretty, but a bit overstated for me, I think. Lockets are a bit romantic though, aren't they? Keeping someone close to your heart that way.”

Anduin has one too. Humans - sentimental creatures with poor visual memories. This one _is_ a bit much, the front solid with tiny gemstones shaped as a heart.

“Did you want to see your pet while we're here?”

“He's a _companion_ ,” she says a little crossly, and he sniffs.

“ _I_ am a companion, Tae, not that great waste of time and effort. It can't even hold a conversation.”

Usually this would be enough to spring a proper argument, but instead she beams at him.

“…what is it?”

“You called me Tae,” she chirps, “you never have before.”

“Plenty of people call you Tae.”

“But _you_ don't,” she insists, “I said my friends call me that when we first met, and you made a face like a lemon and called me _Miss Taelia_.”

The last is pitched in imitation of him - it's better than her last attempt, at least, but still quite poor.

“Well,” he says huffily, “we're friends now, insofar as I choose to have them, so do be quiet about it.”

She hugs him them, sweet smelling hair in his face and soft form conforming closely to his. He pats her shoulder awkwardly.

She does still leave him to visit the great feathered idiot, though, and he manages to steal not just a little bit of time with Anduin before his strategy meeting. As a very delightful side effect of their little adventure, Anduin seems very eager to kiss him again, so he takes some of those as well - hot and a little furtive in the time he has. He goes dark-eyed when Wrathion manhandles him, and when a servant knocks politely to let him know his audience is waiting, he has to clear his throat twice before he answers to say he will be there in a moment.

“Taelia is talking about returning to Kul Tiras.”

He looks stricken.

“I guess she was always liable to,” he says. “But why now?”

“Do you think of her like a sister, Anduin?”

He goes pink, and then miserable, but doesn't answer. He doesn't of course, and feels guilty about it.

Wrathion kisses him again before disentangling himself, says, “would you like me to fix it?”

“That really depends on what your idea of fixing it amounts to,” Anduin says cautiously, which is near enough to a yes to take with him.

“Never you mind,” he says.

“Wrathion -”

He flashes him a smirk, but doesn't stop on his way out.

*

If it wasn’t aligned with his goals, he might be a little offended at how easily he’s able to press Anduin’s latent feelings for Tae into something immediate.

He inserts himself into a conversation with Greymane - who is surprisingly polite, given how obviously he doesn’t trust him - and asks if he thinks Varian would have liked Tae. Two days later, Anduin starts looking pensive, watching her when he thinks nobody is looking.

Wrathion manages to arrange that they play sword-fights (“it's called _swordplay_ , Wrathion, not _practicing sword-fights_ , and it comes up fairly consistently as a useful skill given I am _currently at war_ ”) together, and Anduin blushes very prettily before taking her hand after she knocks him on his ass.

The real coup de grâce is entirely his own, however. Tae’s a little uncomfortable in the Stormwind court - it's not for nothing that the leader of Kul Tiras is fancied an admiral - and he had already made it a habit to ease her way, so it's very easy to stay close to her without arousing suspicion.

He kisses her hand in greeting, whispers things in her ear to make her laugh, and compliments her extravagantly enough to make her blush, and Anduin watches them the entire time.

Greymane watches them very closely as well, and when Wrathion winks at him, goes slate eyed and stiff.

It takes a bit of doing, but he's able to find a time over the course of the evening that's both largely private, and completely visible to Anduin, to pull out the locket he fashioned for her.

“Oh, it's exquisite,” she breathes. It's circular, a cage of delicate filigree with deep red visible within. It had taken him the better part of the afternoon to put together, but her reaction more than confirms his feeling that it was worth the time. She finds the catch, touches a curious fingertip to the glassy red surface on the inside left.

_Consider it a thank you for your ingenuity in calling help to us. You'll find it's a little more sophisticated than the last one, but the function is essentially the same._

She doesn't say anything, but the flattered pleasure is clearly evident - would be even if he wasn't getting a front row seat to her emotions with her finger still touching crystal. The function is _essentially_ the same, but it's less directed, so he can see more of her than he could, feel her reactions more thoroughly.

And her reactions to him are extremely promising - hyper-awareness of his closeness, shy excitement at how easily he moved with her when they had danced earlier. Lingering impressions of him during their excursion the other day. The dip of his snout studied in high detail as he had curled around her warm body, pressed his face into her side in sleep, overlaid with a deep protectiveness. Himself and Anduin, faces haggard with relief in the gentle glow of Light as Anduin smoothed the muscular damage away. A confused twist of jealousy and alarmed interest at the impression of their kissing. He'd honestly thought her still asleep at the time, but apparently not - Anduin leaning forward in his chair, and he's up on his knees on the floor as Anduin cradles his head in both hands almost reverently, devotion mirrored on their faces. Which is a little alarming, actually; he hadn't realized he was quite so _obvious_ about it, but the blow is softened a little by the fact that he manages to look even more handsome in her mind than he does in the mirror, a touch of mystery and dashing to him which is quite pleasing.

_Where's the clasp?_

He hadn't made one, quite deliberately, so when he puts it together he simply fuses the necklace into a single, continuous chain.

“Now I'll never be too far if you need me,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear, and she sucks in a breath before responding.

“As I recall,” she says, “you were the one who needed _me_.” She's putting on a very game face, as though it's all a great joke, but he isn't fooled.

He leans into the look he's seen her linger on - smoky and sly, amused - and simply says, “perhaps.”

Across the room Anduin seems frozen, staring at them. But when Wrathion smiles at him, he looks away.


	5. Chapter 5

It's already quite late in the night so when Tae starts to look done with it he simply offers her his arm, and they both duck out. She drops it fairly quickly in favor of walking beside him normally, fingering idly at the locket as they head back through the Keep.

One of the advantages of not being genuinely human is that he's faster than they can be, so as they come to the hallway where they would usually split in different directions he instead turns abruptly, steps in front of her so quickly she’s forced to stagger back a step to avoid running into him.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

“Not really,” she dimples.

“Good.”

He snakes forward, cups a hand to her jaw and kisses her before she has time to react.

She gasps, and he slides his tongue along hers, but when he moves to herd her into the wall she catches his arms and pushes him back.

“Wrathion,” she hisses - he can hear her heartbeat, sped up abruptly, and her pupils are a little larger than normal, breathing faster.

“Good,” he says decisively, “this is more than enough to work with.”

She decks him.

She's strong, with all of the slowly built muscle of a warrior, and his surprise is so total that she lays him out, which is more than a little embarrassing. He is after all _inhumanly_ strong, and could have caught or dodged besides, if he’d not been too distracted by the flush of being right to consider the logical extension of this approach.

“What the hell,” she’s shouting at him, voice thickening, “enough to _work with_? What the _hell_!”

“I have a plan,” he says from the floor. She looks very good from this angle, towering over him with her fists clenched, color high in her cheeks. He can see why Anduin blushed.

“I get to decide if I'm in on your _plans_ or not!”

“I needed to establish if it was viable before I brought it to you!” he protests, and she makes a loud, wordlessly angry noise, starts running her hands roughly along the chain at her neck.

“Where's the stupid clasp?”

“It doesn't have one,” he says, scrambling to his feet.

“Get it off!”

“Why?”

“I'm a _person_!” she shouts, and her eyes are alarmingly wet, “this isn't a joke, Wrathion!”

“I'm _not_ joking.” He catches her hands, peels them from the chain. The skin around her neck is already reddening from the way she’s yanking at it. “You're going to hurt yourself.”

It takes some convincing to get her to come back to his sitting room, but he's ultimately successful and she sits hunched in an unhappy curve while he explains his plan.

She does uncurl a little at least, and she's _interested_ , color rising for entirely different reasons and the soft, quick sound of her breathing giving her away as he explains the logistics of the three of them together.

“You're interested, and so is he,” he says, not bothering to tamp down any of the smugness in his voice, “all that remains is to agree to it.”

“Have you asked him if he’s interested?”

“I don’t need to. I know he’s interested in both of us.”

She looks doubtful. “I think there's maybe a little more to it than that, Wrathion. It’s… pretty weird.”

“You are being courted by one of the last remaining member of the Black Dragonflight. The experience _should_ be singular.”

The looks she slates at him isn’t particularly impressed. “I suppose. But this was a really bad way to go about it - you really hurt my feelings, you know. I thought… well, it doesn't matter. But you should definitely find a better way to talk to Anduin about it then you did me.”

He takes her hand, runs the point of his claws down her palm before curling them delicately around her fingers, bringing them up to press a gentle kiss to her knuckles. She offers him a hesitant smile.

“What am I missing?” Anduin's voice comes from the doorway, tight and hard, and she snatches her hand back as if burnt.

“Finally joining us, I see,” Wrathion says, “do close the door behind you.”

“Wrathion,” he says dangerously, “if this is some new game, it's not funny.”

“Oh, Anduin, no,” Tae says, and he only looks at her for a moment, a flash of hurt so plain on his face that Wrathion finds himself genuinely worried for a moment that he may have miscalculated.

“She's a person,” he says flatly, “and so am I. Our feelings aren't toys for you to play with.”

“Why do you both keep saying that? I'm hardly going to mistake you for a fish,” Wrathion tells him stiffly, “now sit down. I’ve told you twice I would find a solution to your silly cultural impediments, and now I have, so come here and let me explain them.”

He sits him down beside Tae, and paces as he explains his plan - it doesn't go quite so well this time, in that Anduin presses a hand over his face almost immediately, but his consternation fades when Tae takes his hand shyly, offering him a sweet little smile.

“You realize that the vows I take in marriage are predetermined as a state affair,” he says from behind his hand, and Wrathion sniffs.

“Then why do they matter?”

“Because my word _means_ something, Wrathion.”

“Well, for reference, I _have_ considered it,” he says, “and it says right within those vows that with honesty comes faithfulness - adjusted about six generations ago, in fact, so we have some clues to the randier of your ancestors - so I fail to see any disconnect between the vows you would both be taking, and my proposed solution.”

“Isn't your wife the one you're making them to anyway?” Tae asks hesitantly. He reappears from behind his hand.

“I - it's complicated,” he says awkwardly. “If I break them, it could be considered a state matter, not a personal one, especially if there are treaties hinging on the strength of the marriage.”

She nods at this. He rubs his thumb across her knuckles almost absently.

“You know better,” he says to Wrathion, and he's starting to sound somewhat plaintive, “I have a great number of allies who need to be consulted on any formal courting I might -” he cuts off suddenly, looking annoyed, “what did you say to Genn?”

Wrathion smirks.

“Not much. That your father would have liked her.”

He looks reluctantly impressed at that, and then almost pensive.

“He would have,” he agrees, and then scowls again. “You’re assumed a lot of willingness to overlook our cultural norms for you,” he says finally.

“Please,” Wrathion tells him witheringly, “I was responsible for the creation of this form, Anduin, I _have_ seen it.”

Taelia covers her face as well, but she's doing it to try to smother sudden giggles, and Anduin smiles at her shyly.

“You should kiss him,” Wrathion tells her imperiously, “he’ll be much more reasonable afterwards.”

“You're assuming she wants to,” he says, but with such a sweet note of hope in his voice that he would likely gag, if it weren't evidence of the brilliance of his planning. As though such a large complicating factor were not both obvious and accounted for! It really is for the best that Wrathion was here to intervene, because they would certainly be hopeless without him.

He tells them this, and Anduin moves to throw a cushion at him but Taelia puts her hand on top of his, and he goes very still as she leans in to brush her lips lightly against his.

They kiss again, sweet and soft, and Wrathion settles back, pleased with himself.

“See?” he says, pleased, “now she won't go back to Kul Tiras, and I don't have to eat anyone.”

“You were going to _eat_ me?” Tae repeats, alarmed, and he grins, wide and slow and very sharp.

“Not unless you ask very nicely.”

They both shout at him for that, but it lightens the mood considerably, and also lets him dodge the question unnoticed.

He’s just engaging in some fairly thorough self congratulation when Tae frog-marches him from the room on the basis that “we've both talked to you, and I think maybe we should get to talk to each other.”

“I'm not stopping anyone from talking,” he objects, and she snorts.

“You have never been on the outside of one of your conversations. You both go back and forth so fast it's impossible to jump in. Anyway, I want to know what he says _without_ you right there handling objections.”

“But you might get the wrong answer,” he says plaintively, and she fixes him with a surprisingly steely gaze before saying, “then we'll get it wrong. You can't control everything.”

He's quite aware, thanks, and more’s the pity. He lets her herd him out, though reluctantly. Before she closes the door she leans up, hand on his chest, and kisses his cheek. He covers her hand with his, mollified.

“We’ll figure it out.”

*

He doesn't see either of them until nearly a week later. Both of them going separately and together into various meetings both formal and informal and the Lady Jaina appears halfway through to stalk the halls of the Keep - he's rather attached to his head, and given how unreasonable she was about the Horde generally, she would be a good ally when and only when he could be certain she wouldn't try to take it from him in response to his involvement in the Draenor situation.

But a week is really rather excessive, and longer than he’s gone seeing either of them since he arrived in Stormwind, so he slips through the halls of Stormwind Keep as a cat, availing himself of Anduin’s chambers once it's past time for formal meetings.

“Did you make a mess of things?” he demands when Anduin spots him at the door.

“Light help me,” Anduin sighs, and beckons him in.

Tae’s in the sitting room behind him, next to a woman about their age that he’s never seen before who appears to be doing needlepoint - though she’s too busy staring to do it at the moment. He waves at her cheekily, and she pinks amusingly before looking back down at her fibrecraft.

Tae's dressed in a soft mageweave gown instead of her customary breeches and tunic, and very clearly uncomfortable with it, but she lights up when she sees him.

“Oh thank Light,” she says, “I wanted to fetch you, but nobody will let me go anywhere.” That last was said with a surprising touch of sullenness, sliding an annoyed look in Anduin’s direction.

“Your betrothal will be informally announced in a few days,” Anduin says, and he has that cadence he gets when he’s speaking as the King, as though it’s something he’s said a lot over the last few days. “You're a high risk target.”

“And _you're_ the King,” she grumps.

“They don't want me going anywhere either,” he reminds her, not without amusement. “They'll loosen the reins a little soon enough - probably more for you than me, in fact.” And then, “I'm sure Wrathion will suffice for propriety’s sake,” Anduin says, “you may leave us, Magis, thank you.”

The young lady seated beside Tae packs up her needlepoint, curtsies prettily, and when the door clicks shut behind her Tae lets out an explosive breath.

“Everyone is _so proper_ ,” she complains, “Wrathion, everyone is talking about engagement but I have barely had a _single kiss_ in _three days_ , please don't abandon me to them again.”

Anduin does a poor job of hiding a pleased look at her chagrin, and she scowls at him.

“I kiss you,” he objects.

“On the _hand_ ,” she says scathingly, “and Wrathion virtually hasn't at _all_ yet.”

“I have certainly already kissed you.”

“It doesn't count if you made me cry,” she says tartly, and he snorts, but doesn’t argue the point. Instead, he takes her hand, pulls her to her feet and presses a kiss to her palm.

“That isn't quite what I meant,” she says, but without any real objection.

“I'm rather given to believe you have some feelings about first kisses,” he says archly, “shouldn't I build up to it?”

He moves very slowly into her space. He's glad he committed to being taller than Anduin; she's the shortest of the three of them, though not by very much, and he quite likes standing over them.

She huffs, throws her arms around his neck, and pulls him down to meet her lips abruptly.

She doesn't especially know what she's doing, but figures it out very quickly, charmingly responsive when he smooths his hands down her sides. He chases the little hitch in her breath, and is skimming his fingers very lightly against the outer curve of one breast to small, delightful noises when Anduin clears his throat pointedly.

She lets him go quickly, bright red, and he grins - Anduin’s raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, but he's also sitting a little awkwardly to obscure what Wrathion is quite sure is the beginnings of evidence of his own interest in continuing to watch them.

“The bar is open, little King,” he says, “you're welcome to join us.” He hasn't let her go - instead, he leans down to press a kiss into the soft skin of her neck where her heartbeat is fluttering.

“There are some formalities we should observe first,” Anduin says. He presses his teeth very lightly into Tae’s skin.

“Wrathion,” she squeaks in alarm, “are you _biting_ me?”

“Only a little,” he says innocently, presses his face into the space under her ear for a moment before letting her go.

He sits her down neatly, and then pulls Anduin up for the same treatment - darts his tongue along the shell of his ear to make him shiver, pressing their bodies together.

“Wrathion,” he says warningly, though he's not moving away - is in fact pressing against him, hands firm on his waist, and when he kisses him, Anduin kisses back hard, a hand on Wrathion’s face to better slide their mouths together, and when he draws back, it takes him a moment to open his eyes again. 

“Hmm?” he runs a hand over his ass, and Tae makes a tiny, aborted noise behind them.

“We really should wait,” he says, and shivers again when Wrathion nips lightly at his jaw.

“I certainly don't see why _I_ should have to wait, given _you_ are the ones getting married.”

“About that,” Tae says, “we were talking about it.”

He goes cold for a moment, and then very hot. If they try and shut him out after all this - 

Anduin yelps, jerking back out of his hands, rubbing at his arm where Wrathion had grabbed it - there’s pinpricks in the fabric from his claws.

“A little care, if you would!”

“Sorry,” he says, though he isn't really; he does forget how giving their skin is sometimes, but it remains to be seen how sorry he'll be about it.

“It’s nothing _bad_ ,” Tae says urgently, leaning forward. Anduin sits down beside her and slides an arm around her waist with easily familiarity - as though they've been together for months, as opposed to having kissed for the first time less than a week ago, and at _his_ orchestration.

“Would you?” Anduin asks quietly, “marry us? I know it's not the same, but - well, it would mean the same to us.”

Oh.

They're both looking up at him in that shining-eyed, over the top way they get, like an advertisement for the Light’s glowing effect on one’s skin.

“This sounds like waiting,” he says suspiciously, and Tae bites her lip.

“Not for long,” Anduin wheedles, “you can be patient when you need to.”

“I'm certainly not going to take those state vows, they’re atrocious.”

“I wasn't planning on a state wedding,” he says dryly.

“It's a little funny,” Tae says, “isn't it? That we're all within the bounds of propriety, with three of us here. I don't think it's necessary to wait for _everything_.”

Anduin looks down at her, a little surprised, and then at Wrathion, who smirks at him, and then straight up at the ceiling and closes his eyes.

“You're _both_ a menace.”

“And yet, here you have pledged your troth,” Wrathion mocks, sliding into the space left on his other side and putting a hand on his knee.

“ _Twice_ ,” says Tae, mirroring the action and winking at him.

“So it seems,” he says, helpless affection coloring his voice.

“I bet we can convince him,” Tae stage-whispers to Wrathion, and Anduin laughs.

“You know, I bet you can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking it out kids, hope you had fun!!


	6. Extra: Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is somewhere between an epilogue to 'set the table for three' and a prologue for the sequel, which is probably about halfway through drafting - a missing scene with Anduin and Taelia after Wrathion was kicked out of the room.

The thing about Anduin - the thing that Tae kind of knew already, but didn't realize the full extent of until after Wrathion was smugly telling her to kiss him - is that he is a _big fat cheat_.

Wrathion’s full of sultry flirting, of course, burning eyes and sly smiles and kissing her fingers until she blushes, but Anduin… doesn't actually flirt that much. He'll just turn to her and say something really, disarmingly sincere, or focus all of his attention on her and just _smile_ , and she feels like she's thirteen years old again, just working out why watching the squires practice is so much more exciting than it was last year. It’s probably made worse by the fact that the first time he really turned the full force of it on her was when he proposed

She'd just frog-marched a protesting Wrathion out, and was suddenly very nervous after the door closes behind him, doesn't want to turn around immediately - like if she looks back at Anduin, he'll look at her apologetically and explain that he's very sorry, he likes her but not like _that_ , and he'll be so kind about it that she won't be able to hide anything and every stupid feeling and daydream she's ever had about him will be right on her face, and she'll march right out of Stormwind and keep walking until she finds a cave somewhere and never talk to another person in her life because it will be excruciating.

Which is a bit silly, maybe, given that she had kissed him maybe two minutes ago and he seemed to like it just fine, but she's spent the last few months talking herself out of the idea that he might like her back, and if she can't shake that right away, well, that's only fair.

But putting it off won't change anything, so she takes a deep breath, and turns back around.

Anduin stood up at some point and he looks awkward and _nervous_. He usually has a reflexive mask of poise (she secretly thinks of it as The High King face) but he's let it fall away completely and the shy smile he flashes her makes something flutter in her throat, like she's been given something precious.

“You know, I spent most of my life assuming someone else would be proposing on my behalf, but I can honestly say I never expected that person to be Wrathion.”

“He does have a way of subverting expectations,” she offers. He crosses the room and takes her hands in his.

When Tae was ten, one of her friends’ older sisters had gotten engaged. Every time they came across her with her new fiancee they’d been kissing or worse - giggling in closets, behind the house, even just canoodling as they'd walked the lane. She and her friend had giggled together about it, but it had been an admiring sort of laughter even then, thrilled by their own imagined futures.

Which is all to say, she might be something of a romantic. But in her experience a lot of warriors pretended that romance was silly soft stuff they didn't care about and only did to make their partners happy, while obviously liking it lot, so she thinks it probably doesn't have anything to do with toughness.

“You've become my best friend,” he says, “and I don't want to live my life without you around if I can avoid it. You're smart, and kind, and brave, and I’m so glad I met you. But I don’t want you to get talked into something you haven’t thought through, either. I’ve been interested in you for a while now, but I’m not just me, even without Wrathion to think of.”

“I've been in love with you for months,” she says, kind of wetly, and squeezes his hands as hard as she can. There’s something ballooning in her chest, like a strange combination of happiness and apprehension. Big and complicated, good but also scary, and increasingly difficult to swallow past.

“And Wrathion?” he presses, and she’s shyer about admitting that somehow, but laughs a little anyway.

“Well, he’s… I haven’t know him nearly as long but he’s very him, isn’t he?” She doesn’t quite feel like she’s in love with him yet, but it does feel very close. He’d kissed her in the hallway and the bottom had dropped out of her stomach, another carelessly priceless gift he’d just handed to her like it was nothing. Anduin’s smiling at her almost conspiratorially.

“He’s definitely that.” He keeps looking down at their hands, like he’s trying to figure out how to tell her something, and she squeezes his fingers in what she hopes is a reassuring way. “I would have said something before now - when you arrived, when we started becoming friends, I felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s exactly the point in my life where I need to meet someone, and it’s like you stepped out of nowhere. Perfect for me, and for Stormwind… it seemed so unlikely, somehow. But it didn't seem fair to offer you my heart if I couldn't give you all of it, and I think I knew somehow that he would show up again. And now, _this_ …”

Tae kind of wants to take her hands back so she can pinch her wrist, because she’s getting hot behind the eyes. She bites the inside of her lip instead, and takes a very slow breath.

“You aren’t secretly a dragon as well, are you?” he asks her, a little teasing, and she thinks maybe he’s a little embarrassed by his own sincerity.

“Pretty sure I’m not. Which is a shame, I bet I’d be adorable. Don’t tell Wrathion.”

“Tae,” he says, voice quiet and very serious, and amends immediately, “Taelia Fordragon. Would you do me the honor of becoming my queen?”

“Oh, I was trying so hard not to cry,” she says wretchedly, and bursts into tears.

Thankfully it doesn't last very long - she already got teary-eyed once today, and she doesn’t think of herself as a great crier, but it can be hard to stop once it starts.

“I don't want you to feel forced into anything,” he's saying hurriedly. He's obviously not sure how to take the crying. Which is fair, really, she doesn't know what to do when people are crying either, always just feels useless and alarmed. “It's important that you get the time to really think about it - is it worth it to deal with the court, with the responsibilities, to never have a chance to move home?”

“Yes,” she says stoutly, and takes one of her hands back after all to scrub across her eyes, “All of that stuff… if you love me, if - if you want me with you, that's all just dressing.”

He smiles at her, brilliantly sweet, and when she leans forward he catches her in a hug, arms tight around her shoulders.

“Good,” he says, and then laughs, sounds almost giddy, “ _good_ ,” and puts his forehead against hers, “I'd like to kiss you again.”

“Then do it,” she tells him, and she can feel the smile on his mouth against hers. 

Tae had certainly gotten a better idea of what proper behavior was supposed to be since she was a little girl giggling about the fiancé of a friends older sister - she was pretty sure it didn't involve _nearly_ as much putting your hands in your fiance’s shirt behind the house, for one - but what had stuck with her was how they'd seemed so happy, so sure, ready to shout from the rooftops how in love they were, that nothing could be as strong as how they felt for each other.

She gets her arms around his waist and feels like just for a moment, she's caught that bright, dizzying excitement in her hands like a falling star, and there's nothing that could ever make her let it go.


End file.
